


The Little Angel

by Fallynleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel (Supernatural) as Ariel (The Little Mermaid), Characters Writing Fanfiction, M/M, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3347888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallynleaf/pseuds/Fallynleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's classic fairy tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in the summer of 2014, then didn't work on it for months. I ultimately finally finished it because I really wanted to post it on International Fanworks Day, so here it is!
> 
> I couldn't resist writing the initial first draft on my typewriter, and I typed up a final draft as well. If you're curious, or if for some reason you'd prefer to read the typewriter scans, I've uploaded them to tumblr and they can be read [here](http://typhoidmarysue.tumblr.com/post/111048141970/the-typewriter-scans-for-the-little-angel-a).
> 
> This fic is referenced in [Comment by MrCrowley on AngelOfNazareth's post](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3225542), which I started writing around the same time. That fic is completely different conceptually and does not need to be read prior to this one.
> 
> Contains vague spoilers through the end of season eight, though I additionally recommend having familiarity with the canon through at least episode 9.18 "Meta Fiction."

THE LITTLE ANGEL

A retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's classic fairy tale

by Metatron

 

     STARRING

           CASTIEL as the ~~MERMAID~~ ANGEL

           DEAN WINCHESTER as the ~~PRINCE~~ PRINCESS

           SAM WINCHESTER as the ~~PRINCESS~~ PRINCE

           GOD as the ~~SEA KING~~ FATHER and [           ]

           and METATRON as the ~~SEA WITCH~~ SCRIBE

 

Far above the realm of mortals, through winds and mists and eddies of clouds, nestled in the reflections of cold, starlit galaxies, sits the Kingdom of Heaven. Its exquisite steeples rise high enough to prick clouds lined in starstuff, and the beauty of its gardens can compare to no other, for each garden is crafted uniquely to appeal to the delight of the individual soul that resides there.

Angels, too, reside in Heaven. Though as angels do not possess souls of their own, they pass their millennia wandering the gardens fashioned by others and gazing down at the realm of mortals from on high.

The angels live a peaceful existence, untarnished by violence and decay. Long ago, the angels had been created to wage war, but the time for battle had passed, and their Father had left the Kingdom of Heaven for His angels to rule over and maintain in his stead. After all, the angels had been created in the beginning to serve their Father and His mortal children.

But as a consequence, the angels were mostly confined to stay within the Kingdom of Heaven and were not permitted to linger too long in the realm of mortals, where they did not belong.

However, they could look, and observe, and watch. So they did, witnessing as mortals lived and died, watching humans build great kingdoms only for them to crumble and end in burial by sand. It was easy for the angels to develop a cold detachment, looking down on the affairs of mortals from so far away, watching human after human live and die like the blink of a star, soul flickering up and ascending to Heaven where it would then reside in timeless happiness.

And so, one by one, the angels all turned away from gazing down upon the realm of mortals and begun to look inward towards Heaven instead. All except the littlest Angel, who still watched the mortals in wonder.

But the Kingdom of Heaven was very high up, and through the snatches of clouds, the little Angel could only catch mere glimpses of the mortal world down below.

Now, the angels were occasionally permitted to leave Heaven and venture down, but all of the lower worlds were fraught with peril, especially when compared with the endless peace of Heaven, and the youngest Angel had to wait a very long time before his turn finally came for him to make a brief foray down to the realm of mortals.

He awaited that day with excitement, having heard tales from the other angels of what they had encountered there. The Angel was eager to serve his Father's wishes, but his eagerness was greater still to see the mortals up close, to meet an individual human with a soul still burning bright in his body, life all warm and flickering in his eyes.

And so when the day finally came, the Angel did not so much glide serenely to the realm below as plummet, ignoring the pull of the wind on his feathers in his haste to reach the long-awaited realm as fast as his wings could carry him. So eager was the Angel to reach the realm of mortals, he almost did not catch a brief flash of fire and light, screams of pain alight on the torn breeze, as he soared past the adjacent Kingdom of Hell.

But the Angel did catch them. And Hell was a very bad place and a dangerous one, but something in the voice on the wind drew the Angel towards it anyways.

And that was how it came to be that the first mortal the Angel met outside of Heaven was one that was already dead.

The man's eyes were green and wide and beautiful, even when they were marred with pain and torture. He was a good man, the Angel knew. And a righteous one. He did not belong in Hell, suffering endless torment until his soul would fracture and become ugly.

The Angel found himself reaching for the man, stepping into the world of darkness and flame, ash catching in his feathers, pain and death setting into him from all sides. He grabbed the man by his shoulders and held him tight. Then he fled the screams and anguish, dodging tongues of fire, and left Hell very far behind with the human man in his arms.

Eventually, his feet touched mortal soil, and he laid the man gently on the ground, and stepped back to regard him, watching as the man took in a deep, shuddering breath and began to live again. It was in that moment, maybe, watching the man's chest lift with a peace he had never known all of his life, that the Angel fell in love with him.

But by now, it was already past time for the Angel to return to Heaven, so he reluctantly stepped away from the man and opened his wings, lingering for a few stolen moments before he lifted off of the ground and turned skyward, bound for the great Kingdom in the clouds.

Just before the Angel left, the man woke. He blinked away images of Hell, then met the Angel's gaze with something beyond hope and desperation in his eyes.

Startled, the Angel fled. He did not know how to understand the longing in his own eyes, or the longing deep within his breast where something beat, small and warm, almost like he had a piece of his own mortal soul in his chest.

And so the Angel returned to Heaven. With weary wings and ash on his feathers, he returned to Heaven.

But after tasting mortal air and mortal freedom, Heaven, as beautiful and as wondrous as it might be, paled to washed-out-alabaster in comparison to the vibrancy of the realm of mortals.

The Angel was no longer satisfied just wandering the perfect recreations of mortal paradise. Not after glimpsing the unpolished ugliness of mortals and their world, all rife with violence and pain and those bright green eyes. When he could, the Angel flew to the low-hanging clouds and perched there for days, gazing down and hoping for a glimpse of the mortal man.

The mortal man was quite important, the Angel learned. He was a Princess. And he waged battle against Hell's denizens and even against other mortals, sometimes, his eyes cold and hopeless. The Princess was very alone, after he returned from Hell. Mortals, unlike angels, were not meant to be alone.

And the more the littlest Angel watched the Princess, the more the feeling of longing that he held in his chest grew. His dark feathers begun to droop, wilting under the weight of it, until he could bear it no more and he decided to petition advice from one who was wiser than he.

And so that was why the Angel went, one day, to the small cottage at the outer reaches of Heaven, hedged safely between tumultuous storm clouds in an unending dusk that was forever at the cusp of night. For just inside the Kingdom of Heaven lived the Father's Scribe, who knew all of the Father's magic and thus knew what made angels Be. It was to him that the littlest Angel had gone.

Inside the Scribe's cottage, the walls were lined with stories. Stories bound in books, or scrawled on scrolls, or scratched into tablets, all of them tucked into haphazard shelves and corners, or stacked high enough they might have reached the ceiling, had the roof not been open to the brilliant play of starlight in an indigo sky.

The Scribe sat at his desk, a great manuscript spread before him, and he glanced up as the Angel entered his room and said, "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"I need to know if it is possible for an angel to acquire a mortal soul," the Angel said.

The Scribe sighed. "To attempt to do so would be foolish," he said. "For while they are in Heaven, angels are immortal and will never die, will never experience pain, or misery, or imperfection."

"But it is possible," the Angel insisted.

The Scribe looked at him, at his clear desperation that drifted about him like molted feathers, and felt pity for him, for the Angel did not know that his story was patterned off of a gay allegory and thus had to end tragically. "Of course it's possible," the Scribe said. "Our Father's magic makes everything possible. First, you must become mortal, and then you have to find an ensouled mortal whom you love enough to sacrifice everything for, and who also loves you enough to do the same. Who loves you enough to share part of his own mortal soul with you."

The Angel thought of the Princess, and how alone he'd been, fighting an endless battle that he could never win.

"There is a catch, though," the Scribe warned. Because there was always a catch in these sorts of tales. "If you fall in love with a mortal who already has a soulmate, someone who already has a piece of his soul, then you must kill him, or you will surely die instead."

"I understand the risk," the Angel said. Then he turned pensive, a spark of curiosity in his eyes that was always going to be his ruin, and asked, "What happens to an angel, after he dies? If he lacks a soul and thus neither goes to Heaven nor Hell?"

"He becomes a cloud," the Scribe said. "A mere puff of air adrift in the sky. Nothing."

So certain was the Angel in his love for the Princess, there was no fear in his eyes as he said, "I'll do it. Make me mortal."

Perhaps Our Father should have given us fear, the Scribe thought. But he said, "Oh, alright. But I will need to remove your wings, and thereafter every step will hurt, because it is the nature of mortals to hurt."

"I can handle pain," said the Angel, who had never truly experienced it.

"This should be done in the realm of mortals. Once your wings have been removed, you will never be able to return to Heaven," the Scribe warned. "I dislike leaving my house, but it must be done, and just for you, I am willing to do it."

"I am grateful," the Angel said. It was all angels knew: saying grace, or bestowing grace, or having grace.

"You won't be, after this is over," the Scribe told him. But he knew that nothing would sway the Angel's resolve.

The Angel did not linger in Heaven. He did not even glance back at the foamy towers as he descended from the clouds for the last time. The Scribe followed a couple wingbeats behind him, cautious.

They landed in a dark city. Mortal grime dusted the streets, and the Scribe frowned in distaste at the filth fluttering up all around them. "I guess doing it here will work just fine." The Scribe sighed. He drew a silver blade and approached the Angel.

The Angel did not cry out as the blade sliced cleanly across his back and white light bled from him in blinding rays. The whole street and the walls were awash with dripping grace. Then the Scribe held up his hand, and all of the light swirled in the stale air and collected in his closed palm. "It is done," the Scribe said. "Good luck to you, little Angel." Then his wings lifted, and he was gone.

The Angel fell to his knees on the pavement, everything throbbing in pain and heightened sensation. Without his angelic grace, his senses were receiving less information, but the intensity of it all was much increased. For the first time, the Angel was aware that the realm of mortals smelled. And it was not a pleasant stench. He steeled himself and got to his trembling feet.

He needed to find the Princess. And then the Princess would fall in love with him, and he would get a mortal soul, and then everything wouldn't hurt so much, because souls were warm and beautiful, and the Angel had felt them before and had been soothed.

The Princess slept nearby. The Angel had felt his presence after they had landed. But that feeling had been torn from the Angel with his wings, and now he was alone. He took a shaking step and the pressure on the bottom of his feet was indistinguishable from pain. The feeling did not abate as he walked.

It took most of the night, but the Angel did indeed find his Princess before the light of dawn washed over the city.

Or rather, the Princess found the Angel. All weary and lost and dazed, the Angel all but stumbled into him as the Princess left his room.

"Who are you?" the Princess asked, instantly wary.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," the Angel said. But the Princess did not believe him.

For the Princess had no faith in the existence of angels, and the Angel no longer wore his wings which would allow the Princess to recognize him.

But the Princess allowed the Angel to aid him in his battle against Evil, though the Angel could not always help. The two of them fought side-by-side, through desperation and hurt, and the Angel's hope that the Princess would come to love him only grew stronger.

Some time passed in this way. The Princess slowly started to trust the Angel, and the Angel learned that the Princess had a brother, a Prince who was also involved in the war against Evil, but the two of them had gone their separate ways and were fighting their battles apart from one another. This greatly distressed the Princess, and the Angel tried to distract him from thinking about it too much, for it only caused him pain.

It was inevitable, however, that the Princess and the Prince would come together again. The Angel did not know this because he had gotten too wrapped up in his own story to pay attention to the long-established narrative. And so when it finally did happen, it happened quickly. The Princess and the Prince met up again, and the two of them merely fell back into their old rhythm.

The Angel trailed behind them, and with growing despair, he realized that the Princess's attention had started to shift away from him.

And so one night, the Angel's brothers descended from Heaven to come to him. "You are dying," they warned. "If the mortal man is unable to give part of his soul to you freely, you must take it from him by force and use the power from consuming it to awaken what remains of angelic grace within you and use it to return to Heaven. There, the Scribe can make you whole again."

The angels bore a silver blade with them, which the Angel recognized as the selfsame blade the Scribe had used to rend his wings. "Take this," the angels said, "And use it to cut the mortal man's soul from him so that it no longer has power over you. If you do this before dawn, you will live."

"And if I do not?" the Angel asked.

"Then you will die and become a cloud." There was no mercy in the angels' words. Nor was there pity.

The Angel took the blade with a heavy feeling in his heart, because there was nothing left for him to do.

Afterwards, he returned to the room where the Princess and Prince slept, the blade slick with silvered moonlight in his hands. He tightened his grip and prepared to cut out the Princess's soul, but as he gazed upon the Princess's face where he and the Prince slept side-by-side, the Angel knew that his Princess already had a soulmate. He could see it in the way the Princess slept so calmly when the Prince was in the room, in the way that this had always been their story, even with an Angel intruding upon it like this.

The Angel's hand trembled as he grasped the blade. But he could not plunge that knife into the Princess's chest. Could not take the Prince's own soulmate away from him.

So the Angel stood in the patch of fading moonlight, the gold line of dawn just beginning to edge the horizon, and the blade made a soft sound against the carpet as it slid from the Angel's fingers.

"No," said the Princess.

The Angel blinked in confusion. Even he knew that this is not the way the story was supposed to go, that the Angel had to die because his love was unreciprocated-

"This isn't happening," the Princess said. He got out of bed and stood up. The Prince, who was also awake, soon followed him.

The Princess scowled. "And why the hell am I the 'Princess?'"

If he was going to be unwilling to accept this role, then he could have another. So the Angel stared at them, at the Angel Condom and the Antichrist-

"Oh, come on!"

Clearly, the Whore and the Bitch still did not understand that this was a gay allegory, and that if it didn't end tragically as intended, that would mean-

"That's it. We're done," the mortal man said. He moved to leave the room, waiting for the Angel and the other mortal man to follow.

In this manner, the three of them walked out of the story and into an uncertain future. And the only person who won in the end was the Scribe, who held an angel's power in his hands.


End file.
